Who Knew?

Who knew that when I started my Ironman journey last November, it would lead to: -- Great relationships with an entirely new group of friends

-- The physique I always wanted but could never achieve

-- A greater appreciation for nutrition and healthy living in general

-- Improved confidence and mental outlook

-- A deeper appreciation for discipline, sacrifice and tolerance of pain

-- A reunification with my passion for writing

-- And now...freelance writing opportunities!

Yep, after a long hiatus from freelance writing, I've decided to dive head-first back into that world.  I'm working on two stories for a fresh triathlon magazine website and couldn't be more excited.  I'm almost as excited as competing in an Ironman in three months.

Three months!

Without this blog, I'm not so sure I would have gotten quite so much from my training.  I never expected the Ironman to change my life the way it has.  And this is only my second full season in the sport.

Who knew?!

Certainly not me.

92 days and counting.

Time Flies...

Some days there's just not a lot to write about.  Can't have an epiphany all the time, right? That's why epiphanies are special.  The daily ritual tedium is the rule, not the exception.  When we have a breakthrough, it's all the more significant.  Today was just one of those put-in-the-time ordeals.  Compounded by the Fortius-coached track workout being cancelled.  So, there I was, a solo runner on the Harvard-Westlake High School track.  Surrounded by the girls field hockey team.  Which, I'm sorry to say, looks like such a boring sport!  Seriously, let's chase after a ball with a stick with a bunch of kids who are afraid of said ball and afraid of hurting themselves or others.  Very compelling.

I digress.

The workout was fairly blase.  Warm-up mile, four strides, five 800s with 400 recoveries.  I was supposed to do a mile at a 6:00 pace but tragically ran out of time.  My 800 times were fairly decent, highlighted by steadily decreasing from 3:45 down to 3:20 on the last set.

My reward was a pool workout at 7:30 p.m.  I felt like molasses in the water tonight.  Definitely sluggish.  But I got through it.  Sometimes that's all you can do.  Get through it.

My reward for that will be another workout tomorrow -- on my typical day off.  However, a trip to the symphony on Sunday afternoon negates my ability to complete both an ocean swim and the scheduled two-hour run.  So you will find me at Tower 26 in Santa Monica at 7 a.m. with Coach Gerardo.

On the plus side, it makes my week fly by!

Time flies when your day is filled with tris.  My new mantra!

93 days and counting.

Stick It.

I read a triathlon blog today suggesting I consider why I'm competing in an Ironman. Why?  Because I'll need to recall that answer during the most difficult moments of the race.  When I hit The Wall, what will be my "one thing" that inspires me to fight through and continue? Ironically, I was thinking about that independently during my solo early morning brick workout at Griffith Park (images coming later tonight).  There's a lot to think about 12-18 hours a week without an iPod clouding the brain.

So why am I chasing this dream down?  Is chasing even the right word anymore?  It feels more like a hunt at this point.  A yearlong hunting expedition marked mostly by cagey patience, punctuated by moments of adrenaline-fueled energy bursts.

When I started my training, I really thought the Ironman was a bucket-list checkbox.  Or some project I could point to with pride when I have children.  "See, THIS is how you go after a big goal in life."

Those are nice reasons.  They're surface too.

As I've plunged down the rabbit hole of my psyche these past 10 months, the motivations I've discovered there may be a little darker than initially thought.  I've hinted at it before.  On some level, my Ironman will serve as a giant "Stick it!" to doubters throughout my life.  People whom I've never really forgiven for hurting me.  People who took something from me.  Physically or psychologically.

Garbage I haven't let go of after all these years.

Garbage I need to leave out on the course that day.

The club soccer coach who cut me from the all-star team without explanation or compassion.

"Stick it."

The freshman basketball coach who cut me for two years before sticking me at the end of the bench in ninth grade to stew as a sideshow.

"Stick it."

The neighborhood bully whom I let push me around as a skinny, self-conscious kid.

"Stick it."

The fraternity bros who didn't pick me for the A-list sports teams because I was too small or not fast enough in their eyes.  Or not cool enough.

"Stick it."

The childhood friends whom were always a little bigger (OK, a lot bigger), faster, and stronger.  And who always got the girls.

"Stick it."

The grade school girls who passed me over because I was too this, or not enough that.

"Stick it."

So, yeah.  You wanna know what my line will be at mile 18 in the heat?  When my legs decide to crap out on me?  When my head hurts and I still have another eight miles to run?

I'll think of Karen Takeda.  I'll think of Mr. Dicus.  I'll think of Chad Tosensen (or whatever the hell his name was).  I'll think of all of them.  And the pain.  Both visceral and recalled.  Present and past.

And I'll grit my teeth and keep moving.

Stick it.

That's my one thing.

Find yours.

94 days and counting.

Learning to Run

I never expected running to be the part of my triathlon training that needs the most work. But according to Coach Gerardo, it's the toughest of the three tri-disciplines to master.  We're aided by equipment on the bike and the water in the pool.  But on the track, road or trail, it's just our bodies and the ground.  Apparently, a lot can go wrong in between the two, as I learned tonight in a special one-on-one coached workout at Van Nuys Sherman Oaks park.

In my hour workout that more closely resembled a learning-by-doing tutorial, I learned so much it's still hard to organize my thoughts three hours later.  For starters, my body is working against itself in my current stride.  I need to lean forward by 7 percent at the ankles.  Don't ask me how exactly to ensure it's not 8 or 9 percent.  Doing so will help instigate proper momentum, which can be further accentuated by propelling my arms in a Nordic-track like motion.  But not just any Nordic-track motion.  My elbows must retain a 90-degree angle and remain at the mid-chest level while my hands should be soft enough to cradle a rolled piece of paper.  My gaze should remain 35-feet in front of me, though currently I find myself staring down to ensure I'm leaning forward.  And when I'm not thinking about all that, my hamstrings should be firing my legs so I'm kicking high on the back stride before powering forward to land on my feet at the widest part of the shoe -- as opposed to the heel where I currently strike.  Oh yeah, when my brain is juggling all that, I need to tighten my abs for more power on the arm strides.

I feel like I ran an 800 just from typing that last paragraph!

However, all the minor adjustments and major helpings of patience started to pay off by the end of the tutorial.  Gerardo asked me to mimic his stride without thinking about it, and when I did it felt absolutely effortless.  I won't go as far as to say I was gliding, but I certainly was striding forward at a relaxed yet faster pace.  Then, I ran an 800 with these same principles in mind and Gerardo said I looked like a different runner from just 60 minutes prior.

I felt like one too.

I have sheets of paper with checklists and drills to incorporate for future workouts.  I may need to even buy a pair of track shoes to help my feet strike the ground properly.  Especially since my stability-structured shoes and podiatrist-prescribed orthotics create extra padding that makes proper foot-striking more difficult.  But I'm hooked on this idea of a more efficient stride.  Like perhaps it's the vaunted red pill that will take me down the rabbit hole into the world of Boston Marathons and US/World championship-qualifying times.

Hey, a guy can dream, right?

Dreams.  Isn't that what all this is about on some level?  Being able to feel like an elite athlete training for peak performance?  Instead of the guy reading about it on ESPN.com?  To have a coach monitor every stride to fine-tune the seemingly smallest detail that could lead to a personal-best finish?  Even if that moment is just that, a fleeting instance of glory at a local race on any given Saturday or Sunday?

Why should the pros have all the fun?

It's what moves me in the morning when it's hard to get out of bed.  And tomorrow, when I'm stumbling towards the shower at 6 to wake up and prepare for a two-hour morning brick, I'll lean forward about 7 percent to see if I can get there a little more efficiently.

95 days and counting.

Monday: Second Best to an Off Day

Triathlon training is the uncommon cure to a common case of "The Mondays." You know The Mondays...the slightly annoying, slightly depressing malaise that sets in after a blissful weekend.  In our case, in the world of the obsessed triathlete, it often consists of a Half Ironman divided over Saturday and and Sunday.  For those less fortunate, it's an emotional hangover or perhaps even a physical one.

But my Mondays are now the second-best thing to a day off in Ironman training.  Today, I spun on my trainer for 45 minutes while catching up on Mad Men.  I'm enjoying this season so far, incidentally.  It's grittier and shaping up to be a little nastier.  And subtly, I think the directors have made a very nice switch from the idyllic nature of the late 50s to the more pressure-filled world of the early 60s.  Camelot clearly has burst.

But that's not what I enjoyed most.  It was the fact that I my coaching itinerary was to stay in heart-rate zone 1 while maintaining a healthy cadence.  This yielded fresher legs, a healthy coating of sweat and the feeling that while I probably didn't gain anything from the workout physically, I still felt relaxed and ready to take on the day.  That's plenty.

The second part of my workout called for either a strength session or yoga.  Not wanting to over-exert myself, I opted for yoga.  Suddenly, Monday evening felt like Sunday evening.  I dare say that while I worked a full day today, it still feels like a three-day weekend.  How often can one say that after still completing nearly two hours of training?

The meat of my 18.5-hour training week begins tomorrow.  I've got a coached track session with Gerardo to improve my stride and a coached swim workout.  Somewhere in between I've got a big day in the office.

In other words, Tuesdays are the new Mondays in the world of the Ironmadman.

96 days and counting.

Discreet Progress

The Fortius-coached track workouts are starting to show dividends.  But in a way I wouldn't quite expect. After this morning's LA Tri Club "Chicken of the Sea" swim, I took off on a two-hour run where the goal was to negative split on an out-and-back course.  I managed to do so by seven minutes while maintaining a steady pace throughout the 12 miles from Marina del Rey to Playa del Rey and back.  My success didn't necessarily come from overdoing it on the latter part of the run.  Instead, I was able to cover a little more ground on the first half while at a slightly lower heart-rate than usual.  This seems to be where the weekly track workouts have started to pay off, though I would have expected to see an increase in speed rather than a decrease in heart rate-per-mile run.

Richard and Ann joined me this morning and both noted that I seemed to be moving at a more efficient, relaxed pace.  My arms were doing more work and propelling me forward while I wasn't exerting as much energy in the lower heart-rates to maintain a 9:00 pace.  This was encouraging news, and I wouldn't have noticed it had it not been for them.  That's one of the many perks of training with friends. I wouldn't be quite so lucky for the entire run as the couple had a different training schedule and turned back at the 45-minute mark.  That left me 1:15 to remain mentally occupied sans music.

To counter the solo Sunday doldrums, I chose to run a different route, past the bridge at Ballona Creek and onto the beach path in Playa.  At this point, I'll do just about anything to keep my brain occupied and not feeling like I'm on a mental hamster wheel where every training weekend starts to feel the same.

I suppose it's these very mental games in practice that allow me to persevere on race day -- when I need to coax myself forward instead of pausing for breaks.

The tempo part of my run started off great with a few sub 8:30 miles but once again I hit a wall just after the 10th mile where my pace dropped, my heart rate rose and my legs tightened.  I walked up the few (small) hills on the return trip to the marina.

Overall, the lesson I learned today was that progress doesn't always come from the expected or obvious source.  Sometimes it takes others to point it out to you.  Other times, the Garmin watch data can indicate momentum that might otherwise get missed.

Still, progress is progress, and I'm not complaining.

97 days and counting.

Weight for Me!

My scale must have malfunctioned this morning. My eyes must have been bleary.

So I stepped off the scale, reset it and stepped back on again.

Nope, that number is accurate: 127.5 pounds.

Cue "Home Alone" face!

I realize that my Ironman training has picked up in volume and intensity over the past couple weeks.  But I've experienced harder workouts over a longer period and kept my weight in the 130s neighborhood.  What has changed?  I don't feel like I look any different than I did before.  I'm consuming the same quantity of food and water each day.  At least it seems that way.

I've even included ice cream more often in my diet.  With Coach Gerardo's blessing even!

As you can tell, I'm a bit concerned.  I've always been skinny and I think I'm tapping into some insecurities from elementary, junior high and high school.  Hell, in college my first fraternity pledge name was Twiggy. So today I've been on an eating binge.  A food assault.  French toast, three scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast.  An apple for a snack.  A huge plate of Mediterranean food for lunch.  A banana for a snack.  A large dinner with Stephanie shortly.  Do I need snacks in between my snacks?  One thing I will be returning to are my homemade protein shakes: Jay Robb whey protein (chocolate), flax seed oil, frozen fruit, and peanut butter.  That will hopefully pack on the pounds once again.  And by "pack," I really only mean three to five extra pounds.

As I mentioned in last evening's blog post, I've lost almost 10 pounds during my Fortius Coaching experience.  But that's not the whole story.  Since I returned to a healthy, fitness-driven lifestyle at the end of 2007, I've dropped close to 30 big ones.

Now, I'm afraid of losing too much weight.  I need a little bit of fat for that 140.6 leviathan coming soon.  Maybe my decrease in weight has affected my training performance?  Could that be why I bonked so hard last Sunday?  I'm not sure there's a connection there, but I think my weight loss is a contributing factor.

So if you're meeting up with me over the next few days and a restaurant is involved, I'd suggest warning them that a ravished mad man is about to descend upon them.  And G-d help them if it's a buffet.

I'm about to declare war on food.  And nothing, especially my own kitchen, is safe.

99 days and counting.

(Man, seeing double-digits is weird!)

Why Coached Swim Workouts Rule

Been a busy few days!  No blog yesterday due to a Fortius post-swim beer and pizza night at Blue Dog Grill in Sherman Oaks.  It was well-deserved too, with a new PR in the 100 (1:26) and being totally gassed after anchoring a 4 x 50 sprint relay at the end of the workout.  I wanted to write, but just didn't have the energy after all the food, booze and trash-talking dished out among my Fortius team buddies.  So I saved last night's entry for tonight. I'm still caked in dried sweat and salt following the LA Tri Club Griffith Park Wednesday brick workout.  But I know if I don't blog now and wait until after a hot shower, it just may not happen at all.

There's certainly lots I could write about from the past two days.  Whether Tempe Town Lake will be filled in time for the Arizona Ironman, for example. Or, how I'm recovering from my bicycle bonk on Sunday.  Or, the secret guilt I've been harboring lately about balancing work, home and training.

Instead, I'm going to address a question Coach Gerardo had for me last night at the bar.  He asked how I thought coached swim workouts make me better.

I hadn't really considered it before.  Perhaps it's because I've taken it for granted, since I've swam with an instructor's supervision for more than a year now.  The more I think about it though, the more I realize how much of a difference a coached workout can make.

For me, it comes down to four key benefits:

-- Breaks up the monotony. Before I started attending SCAC and Fortius Coaching swim workouts, I'd trudge to the pool on my own, count laps, trudge out of the water, and think I had put in a good workout.  I dreaded every pool training session, and I saw little improvement.  By having a coached workout, there's always the excitement of wondering what the coach has in store for you. It changes with every workout, and by breaking up the hour with drills, time-trials and sprints, every workout feels unique enough to stay fresh.

-- Pushes you out of a comfort zone. When training on my own in the water, it's easy to rationalize just about anything.  Distance. Duration.  Decreasing sets.  Decreased effort. Especially effort.  If I didn't feel like going hard -- for whatever reason -- I could make up an excuse.  In a coached workout, dogging a workout wastes your financial investment and your precious time.  More important, if you respond well to direction like I do, then it's easier to "let" someone else push you through a hard workout.  Sure, it's fun to whine and light-heartedly complain about it (like I do), but the satisfaction that comes with responding to and rising above someone else's challenge makes a coached workout a more special experience than a solo effort.

-- Competition as motivator. If you're anything like me -- and if you're reading this I'm guessing you are -- sharing lanes with people at or above your skill level makes a difference in a workout.  When you swim alone, you can isolate yourself in the water and ignore the surroundings.  When you're part of a group, and there's five lanes that represent a swim speed hierarchy, it's a lot harder to avoid the reality that a coached workout may be your only ticket to improvement.  For me, I crave and dread that competition.  On one hand, I love to know how I stack up to my friends.  On the other hand, I hate when I'm keeping them from a faster lap time because they're behind me and can't quite pass in the lane at that moment.  Maybe it's better to say competition as catalyst, fear as motivator.

-- Peer pressure. 6 a.m. is early by anybody's standards.  It's flat-out awful in the winter when you're practically naked jumping into a semi-heated pool.  But when there are 10 other people doing the same thing, sharing the same experience and making the best of it, well, it's not so bad.  The coached swim workout is a bonding ritual. It's those quiet mornings in the pool when everyone in attendance could be asleep that bring individuals closer together.  It's also one of the reasons I get misty eyed at the finish chute during triathlon races.  Those are the moments I recall.  The quiet, gentle water being ripped by hungry athletes trying improve themselves.  The eerie light in the pool shining brightly reminding you that the sun hasn't risen yet -- but you and your teammates have been up for almost an hour already.  The steam that drifts to the sky if the temperature difference is big enough -- punctuated by the silhouettes of latex-hooded, goggle-wearing tri-maniacs trying not to shiver.

Those are my fondest moments of a coached workout.

Though being high-fived after hitting the coach's goals for a new time-trial PR aren't bad either.

Now I need to sign off pronto.

I've got a coached swim workout to attend at 6 tomorrow morning.

101 days and counting.

Mulholland, Piuma & Rock Store OH MY!

The shininess of progress is sometimes obscured by what appears to be failure. But if you look a little deeper, the former often outweighs the latter.

Progress sure hurts sometimes too.  I ventured out to cycle with my Fortius teammate and friend Christina this morning.  It turned into the most challenging, most painful bike ride yet -- and hopefully with he biggest payoff down the line.

First let's rewind.

My schedule called for 2.5 hours at whatever pace "the group" chose -- hills or flats.  It was supposed to be a nice follow-up to yesterday's Santa Barbara Triathlon course preview ride and run.  That went out the window though once a LA Tri Club member whom I look up to showed up with his wife and served as the ride's pace leader.

I had to know if I could keep up.  I wanted to hold Jeff's wheel without wrecking myself.  I wanted to be with the "fast" group.  Maybe it's because I still remember all those rides where I'd get dropped with the San Fernando Valley Bicycle Club.  Maybe my competitive nature got the better of me once again.

Probably a little of Column A and a little of Column B.

The short version of the story is that for 50 miles, I did keep up.  Outside of popping briefly on the El Toro grade off Highway 150 and losing the other three fastest riders, I stayed right up front.  And damn it felt good!  Even better, the five-mile run felt just as a good. I snapped off a few 8:30s and sub-8:15s while helping pace a new friend on the Tri Club.

As much fun as practicing can be, sometimes being thanked for a helping hand in training or a compliment on speed can really make all the difference between a good workout and a great one.

So with all those good vibes swirling around in my head, I didn't think twice when Christina invited me to join her for four hours of climbing in the Malibu hills.  After all, I needed to fit in the extra cycling hours I missed last week at the Vineman Full course, and we were supposed to hit 70 on the bike yesterday.

Clearly, I wasn't thinking straight.  I failed to take into account that Christina is the "Queen of the Mountains" after crushing her competition at the Amgen Breakaway Ride -- which features four climbs of the Rock Store grade.  Four!  Christina also scales these hills at least once or twice a week as part of her training for larger bike rides and at least an Ironman a year.

Christina is a badass.  And until this ride, I had no real conception of what that actually meant.

And I had no idea AT ALL what climbing Mulholland Drive, Piuma Road, Rock Store and several other hills over a 55-mile span would do to me.

On a road bike with a full carbon seat I haven't ridden in weeks.

Simply put, the ride almost broke me.  Physically, it actually did break me.  Mentally, it came as close as anything ever had in the past.  I'm talkin' LA Marathon kind of pain.

By mile 25, at the intersection of Cornell Road and Mulholland, I had enough.  I was spent.  My cadence went from a steady 80-100 on flats and 60-70 on hills to roughly 53 on hills (even down in the 40s!) and well in the 70s on the flats.  After the Mulholland Piuma climbs and on the way to Rock Store, Christina's bike became harder and harder to spot.  Like a speck amidst the waves of heat rising from the freshly paved asphalt.

Honestly, I felt pathetic.  Hot.  Dry.  Heavy.  Hurting.

I wanted to quit.  I was about to quit.  I told Christina I wanted to quit.  I was ready to go home. The ride had beaten me. Shocked me, like a surprise left hook.  Staggered me.  Showed me I still had a lot to learn as an endurance athlete.  Just because I brought the noise on a Saturday didn't mean squat.  Back-to-back was not meant to be.

Is this what being an Ironman is really like?  Had I missed the point the entire time?  It's not about one sprint race, or a good Olympic distance time or even one Half-Ironman result.  What can you bring back-to-back?  How fast can you recover?

If those are the yardsticks, I had failed.  I knew it.  And the worst part was not having the defiant energy to swing back at those self-doubts in the cloudless Sunday sun.

Christina gave me some tough love though, coated in understanding and softness.  She coaxed me to stay, saying Rock Store would "only be 25 minutes of pain" (normally it takes me around 17-18 minutes!) and I'd be home free after that, feeling great about my accomplishment.

I couldn't argue.  I didn't even have the energy to do that!  Moreover, I didn't want to derail Christina's ride.  Or let her down.  Or quit.  Again, if I could quit now, what would happen in November if I had two flat tires, a cramp in the swim and a knot in my stomach during the run?  Worse yet, what would happen if nobody was nearby to goad me into sticking it out!?

This blog was conceived with my thought of it serving as a "big goal guide" for the kids I don't have yet.  Kids who hopefully will read this one day and if nothing else, they'll know their old man was never a quitter.  I may not have been the fastest, or kept the wheel of the best guy in the club all the time. But I show up the next day.

And I don't fucking quit.

I ventured on, accepting the pain. Realizing that once again, all my platitudes about overcoming suffering really didn't mean anything until that point.  There's discomfort (my Half Ironman), and there's suffering ... today.  Suffering occurs when there seems to be no reason to continue.  The Half-Ironman at least had a finish line.  The comfort zone in your training passed by 15 miles ago and there's easily another 20 miles still to go before returning home.  With at least four hill climbs.  The water bottles are low.  The Clif bars taste the same -- they have since last November -- and gross you out.  The Hammer gels taste like cake frosting that makes you want to barf.  And the Gu Chomps...well, there's small writing on the back of the packaging indicating you shouldn't eat more than six in a two hour period for a reason.

The ride sucked.  The ride taught.

I cracked.  And repatched.

I wilted. And am regenerating.

While tomorrow now features a rest day where one didn't exist a few hours ago, I'm feeling better already.  I learned something about myself again today.  Discomfort is a speed bump.  Pain is a choice.  The brain can propel the body forward even when it really doesn't want to -- provided there's enough fuel in the system to do so.

And sometimes, your best friends, your best teammates, are the ones who push you past your perceived breaking point to show you what lies beyond.

Thanks, Christina.

I'll be back on that course.  And I'll do better next time.

104 days and counting.

Just Another Day

Some days, just describing the activity is enough. This is one of those days.

6 a.m.: Swim with Fortius.  Timed 100 dropped to 1:27 on a dare from Coach Gerardo.  Nice breakthrough!  But it also came at the mid-point of the workout instead of at the end.  Still, I'll take it!

8 a.m.: Weight training (legs and core)

9 a.m.: Podiatrist to pick up orthotic inserts.  I've been running on my flat feet for the past week and a half.  My feet and and IT bands have paid the price.  It's a welcome relief to have arches again.

10 a.m.- 6:30 p.m.: Work, which was explosive today.  I can say that almost literally since I work for a videogames developer.

7 p.m.: After driving from Burbank back to Sherman Oaks, Steph and I met up and headed to the Hollywood Bowl to see Gustavo Dudamel conduct the LA Philharmonic performing Gershwin and Bernstein classics.  The pianist stole the show, though I could watch for hours Dudamel mesmerize the orchestra and the audience.  Total command and control with grace, charm and confidence.

11:10 p.m. Returned home after fighting Bowl traffic.  Writing blog. Eyes drooping. Body sagging.  Bed calling.

11:11 p.m.  Good night.  Let's do it again tomorrow.

109 days and counting.